


Je Vois La Vie En Rose

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn poly bingo 2017 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Boy King Sam, Demon Dean, Demon Powers, Multi, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 16:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10903197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: You didn't think they'd keep you alive, period.Square 12/24: "Cole/Dean/Sam".





	Je Vois La Vie En Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Second person/third person back and forth, sometimes no punctuation—shhh, just let it happen.

The rain, useless in cooling down anything as it is in this grade of humidity, is calming. Helps softening the already soggy earth even more, yeah, and there’s a swamp not far from here, you saw it during the drive.

You are sweating. There’s a splinter or two under your nails for good measure but they stopped throbbing a few hours ago. You want to go inside, remind them of dinner, but then you’d have _to go inside_.

The front door swings open and a waft of stench comes with Sam, a short sample of noises you refuse to decipher. You don’t look at him, keep from it even as he sits down next to you.

You can hear him rubbing his slick hands together, then washing them in the rain.

“He’s almost done,” Sam says. “You hungry?”

You nod.

You look to Sam’s feet. Naked, leg of jeans rolled up, but the girl got everywhere anyway.

You look to his face. You find him gazing out into the rain, frowning like a dementia patient trying to remember something.

“How many days has it been?”

“Two,” you supply.

His frown drops. If this was the answer he had hoped for, you can’t tell.

Dean emerges from the two-story house an hour later. The three of you get into the car, you in the back. You spare a last glance for the place being left behind, the lonely porch they let you camp out on. In a way, it was yours.

They touch you up before stepping into the diner. You know you haven’t showered in months now but they make your body feel and smell and look like you did; Dean, most of the time.

You’re used to long periods without food, have been before them. But it’s humiliating, always, to eat that first meal in public. You order three main dishes, just because, just like Dean and Sam both order beer (which will both be drunk by Dean) and Dean gets his pie, burgers with fries.

Sam watches you eat. That’s the worst about it, you think. That he sees you as an animal, a pig, and that in that moment, he is right.

“I’m thinking somewhere colder next. Or at least fucking _dry_.” Dean orders another beer by hand sign. “Mountains, maybe.”

Sam snorts.

You eat.

~

You’ve done things. Seen things. You’ve been trained for it, years ago, to endure it. To keep going. Given these facts, you figure you should be coping better.

But your routines are slipping. You have nothing but your memory to keep track of the number of days, and they seem to have access to that, too.

You sleep a lot, just because. It’s the closest to unconsciousness you can get to, the closest they’ll let you have. But once you wake, you’re back.

“Hey. How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”

You blink awake to the blurry image of Dean, in the passenger seat somehow, grinning over the backrest. You don’t bother sitting up straight.

“Six,” you say.

Dean’s laughter rolls loud like thunder (this is one of his favorite jokes). “Right, right,” and Sam glares at him for being so childish, maybe.

Dean stuffs the fingers back into the inside-pocket of his jacket.

The car stops in front of a strip club. You are awake, now.

Dean drags you with him, orders three drinks, downs his and Sam’s. You throw back yours, avoid anyone’s eyes. Dean gets another round, two. You can’t tell where Sam is. Probably nearby. He came in with you, right?

You have been sweating in the car but it’s getting worse now, wedged under Dean’s armpit, his words charming and loud and vulgar and you listen as you _don’t_ listen; looking out for possible threats but he’s just talking shit, making up stories as he likes to do.

You two make your way to the dancers. Dean has you sit down. You cross your arms in front of your chest. He wants you to look and you should know from experience, but you hesitate long enough for him to turn his eyes on you, put a hand on your shoulder.

You used to be good at this, once. But now you’re just another deer in the headlights. Frozen.

“Pick a favorite,” Dean not-suggests.

Your eyes travel from platform heels to legs to pole. To wildly-colored nails, to flashes of long hair and glitter, tattoos, sweat.

You feel like crying.

“Maybe one who looks like your wife?”

~

Cole stares up at Dean who stares down at Cole, eyes nothing but a gleam in the no-light, shadow of a face and you can’t tell if he’s moving or not, if the noises are her squirming on the table or if he’s brushing his hands over her.

Her screams baffle you in a way, because holy hell he hadn’t thought she would be able to make any sound at this point.

Where’s Sam? Where’s he?

“Sammy?” (A sigh of a name, really.)

“Right here.”

Cole seizes. Ice, fire, pins and needles and razor blades and—take a deep breath.

Cole’s breathing gets thinner and slower without his control. Dean watches.

Cole’s eyes can’t stir away from that one spot in the darkness where Dean is sawing through tissue, sinews, then bone, and he wishes but _he can’t_ , and he’s shaking somewhere under his skin but it never comes, it never emerges and it’s never allowed to turn _real_.

Warmth drapes over Cole and he can smell everything, can identify every single organ.

Cole has no breath left to whimper.

Dean smears his hands over Cole’s face; ends with a sweep of thumb like a Dad, a Mother.

(Not that you have any sympathy for Dean, but. It’s the little things.)

~

Months are passing. Time is blurry in their company as if without any meaning. It’s not a factor to consider—no threat, no measurement. Expiration dates exist, somewhere, out of your comprehension; in a space not meant for you.

Resignation is slow to set in. You’re still looking for rules, patterns, any indication of anything to go by. As far as you understand it, you remind them of their dad, because he used to be a Marine as well. Because you made a feisty impression, sharp comments, quick thinking.

Dean has been kneading along the inside of your thigh for a while now, a passing gesture, a pastime while you two wait for Sam to return.

In contrast to his brother, Dean has some sort of nostalgic phase every few weeks. Wears a different smile then, an uncertain almost human version he shines at Sam and you and practically everyone you pass by, and they have no idea how lucky they are.

So, that hand. Scratching along the seam, carefully avoiding-searching your junk. You’ve learned those hands. You know what they can do. When he steps in front of you, urges you with your back up against the metal of their car, you look away.

“Hey,” he says, soothes, his left now blatantly groping you while the right stays on your thigh.

He brushes his lips over yours, and it’s gentle, _he_ is, but you remember and he knows you do.

They do those things. Like invisible hands, touching you from the inside. Taking control. Lighting up. Cooling down. Whatever they want.

So, and this is not the first time Dean’s done this, was mock-soft with you before got on his knees before sucked your cock before. You remember like it was yesterday and you wilt, tremble, can’t move can’t jerk away but he lets you cry (maybe it amuses him). He doesn’t bite tear rip but he could, has before, and he’s looking up at you with his eyes in that green you remember, faintly.

He makes you watch. Makes you take in the wide spread of his knees where he’s squatting, un-ripped denim stretching cruelly over kneecaps that can make the ugliest noises—weirdly porn-ish mouth on that straight face, sharp and stubbled and no need to breathe to gag he can swallow you to the root without struggle (you’ve seen him forcing limbs and other objects (pipes knives bottles parts of bottles) down or up inside himself, everything’s boring and exciting him equally).

He keeps you hard. Makes you come. Spits into the sand, gets up, claps your shoulder as he turns around to scan the place for Sam.

You soak up the heat—above, behind, below you; air and metal and sand. Dehydration is coming slowly, not urgent yet. You breathe.

~

You’ve never seen them touch. It’s a tightly-scheduled dance, usually with someone in the middle, due to you having become a part of them said someone usually being you. (Or, you _have_ seen them touch, but there’s _unsaid_ things and sighs and whispers in the _darkness_.)

You don’t know if they’re even interested in that, period—to turn their connection physical. If they did, they’d probably tear each other apart. Neither would come up with much.

They’re not afraid of anything except each other, and maybe ‘afraid’ isn’t the right word either.

They’re scared for and of each other, yes. The only matter worth caring about, each brother for the other vice versa. A bond not to touch or question. Vulnerable, in a way—the only pleasure they really indulge in that isn’t about imposing violence.

You think Sam’s chasing him through you, sometimes, when Dean was inside of you (physically or not) and Sam traces his steps, licks up left-overs.

The first time Sam hurt you in that way, Dean had just finished. Filled the gap his brother left behind, tore new ones. Choked you with his bare hands, rubbed where Dean bit you, like the indent of teeth was so fascinating, so tempting. It was over quick as Sam lost interest, and Dean who had been watching had teased for weeks (weeks months does it matter?).

Dean usually looks for Sam’s attention, tries to make him laugh or smile and you can tell when he wants to be heard, when he’s putting on a show, while Sam neither makes jokes nor engages in them. Only ever smiles, really, when Dean isn’t looking, is doing something else with someone else who is _not_ Sam, will never _be_ Sam, and Cole can’t place that fondness, that absence of bitterness, he can’t.

(Sam looks soft at his brother, fond, like he’s a doctor whose patient is slowly but surely getting better, like a kind-hearted man taking care of old disabled dogs.)

~

Dean tangles your dog tags around his finger. Reads your name, the day of your birth. He’s got a kind of obsession with them and it makes sense; said they’d burned their dad with his ones.

You wonder if he’s laid like that with his dad, peaceful calm intimate on a bed with the TV running, kitchenette grease-stink from bacon and eggs. If that dad they lost was a good man, and what he did wrong. If he is a piece to this puzzle.

It’s hard to imagine them as kids. Especially Dean, who was a demon in your books even before he actually turned out to be one, and nothing makes sense, it doesn’t. There’s no way this man ever was anything but what he is here, now, with bones and metal and skin in his intestines, hanging off his brother like a chained hound but strutting like he owns the show, like he owns _you_ ; lap dog, entertainment.

You haven’t seen another demon, or vampire, or monster. Maybe the brothers got rid of them all, maybe they lost interest in hunting altogether. (Maybe the monsters are avoiding _them_.)

~

Dean is softer with the girls. To Sam, there is no difference in anything.

Sam makes it seem easy, like he’s been doing this forever. He’s got efficiency where Dean is following spontaneous inspirations. He gets excited for different things than his brother. He’s a voyeur.

Sam uses his body like he does with any other weapon. He rapes to destroy, to make a point. It’s a rare business he doesn’t seem to particularly enjoy; Sam doesn’t exactly ‘enjoy’ anything, (unlike his brother who uselessly sticks to eating, alcohol, sometimes napping).

Sam likes his blood clean and warm. He closes his eyes like he wants to be alone with it.

Cole is weak, even after being stitched back together. Dean is washing up in the bathroom; another emotional leftover. Sam is nursing on Cole’s wrist, on his knees in front of the bed and the light from the bathroom gleams just enough to show his face. Peaceful.

When he’s done, he sighs and sags like a junkie. Drags fingers up your arm, leaves a prickling in your veins, promising thick clots. Your body begins the usual early protests. It’s not your first heart attack, but maybe-maybe the first he _holds_ you through, cradles your head and watches your eyes. Your body spasms and moves on its own account, you can’t lift a finger, Cole is dying slowly and aware of it and he doesn’t die not _really_ because Sam holds him back, holds him inside, won’t let him escape.

Sam clears the first clot to make way for the next, and the next, and the next.

You don’t sleep.

Open-eyed nightmares on the ceiling. You hear Dean sigh, quietly, like a secret.


End file.
